New Sight
by Hegemone
Summary: Matthew Murdock regains consciousness in the hospital after his accident. Rate M for language and references to body parts. I'd like to attribute the Auntie Grace character to girlwithoutfear and moms5thchild - she's mentioned briefly and I have plans to include her more in future chapters.
1. Emerging

Matthew was pulled into consciousness through a heavy fog that muffled the sounds until they emerged into a tremendous cacophony: Clanging, grinding, grating, whirring, piercing electronic beeps, voices that reverberated inside his head, thumping rhythms.

He wanted to put his hands over his ears to block out the noise, but they didn't seem to be getting the message. He tried to turn his head, to open his eyes, but they were too heavy.

Around him, the room started to come into focus, and yet not into focus. His eyes wouldn't open, but he knew he was in a bed, under rough sheets, in a loose-fitting garment with ties, in a room. In a hospital. The smell… sharply antiseptic over layers of overheated food, latex, burned coffee, blood, vomit, urine, sweat, feces.

The ring of aluminum, the electronic beeps, the layers of human voices that ebbed and flowed as if they were moving toward and then away from him… in a corridor? He could feel cool air moving through a doorway and forced through a vent on the ceiling - the air assaulted him with the odors. A drip of water falls from a faucet - tinged against the metal basin of the sink.

Someone was in the room with him. He didn't need to turn his head or open his eyes to know it - the warmth from a body radiated - the hammering of the heart, breath moving warm air in and out with a raggedness that carried cigarette smoke and whiskey odors.

Sweat tinged with fear clung to a well-worn T-shirt. _Dad. He's scared. Dad is scared. And sad. How do I know this?_ As he focused on his dad, the din became more bearable; the stench lessened. He breathed in his dad's aroma and heard his own heart which had started beating wildly (the monitor in the room emitting more rapid beeps as it sped up) slow down again. Calm.

There was something soft on his face - over his eyes. Bandages. His eyes burned - the skin around them felt tight and raw. His head pounded… both from the almost unbearable noises, but also from a tenderness at the back of his head… _a bruise?_ Something was stuck into the back of his hand… it ached. It smelled of metal, plastic, adhesive, and blood. An I.V. and a plastic bag of liquid (it smelled salty) was making a rhythmic dripping noise near the head of the bed, near the beeping monitor.

A dull pain in his groin and the smell of urine - there was a thin plastic tube taking his pee to a bag hanging under the bed. He realized he was not wearing underwear and felt naked even under the hospital gown, sheets, and blankets.

His feet felt cold, but he couldn't move them either.

Footsteps grew louder outside the door of the room, pounding into him. He breathed in more of Dad to calm himself as she passed and the steps faded away. _How did I know it was a woman?_ The air brought in a fruity, soap smell - perfumey and feminine.

He heard his dad shift - his jeans scratching against the surface of the plastic-covered chair he was sitting on. He heard his dad run his fingers through his hair - fingernails scratching against scalp. He smelled salt and worry. His dad was wiping tears from his eyes. He heard the moisture as he squeezed his nose to capture the drips.

Matt didn't remember ever knowing his dad to cry. Ever.

Outside the window, he heard pigeons cooing - the talons scratching cement. In his mind's eye, he saw the pigeon - imagining the gradations of gray to white and black of the feathers. He heard the feathers rustling against each other as the pigeon moved.

Another woman walked by the door - her footsteps were less even. One step was heavier than the other as the noise bounced off the corridor walls. Papers rustled in her hands and keys jingled by her hip. Her soapy smells were different, less fruity, more like wood and oil.

She passed by and he focused again on his dad and calms his breathing.

On the other side of the wall, he heard a child whimpering. There was a woman next to the child, a man snoring… more people. He pulled his focus back to his dad. Breathe.

This could be a dream. Unlike any dream he'd had before, but still a dream. The fog descended again. The sounds, smells, tastes, temperatures, and sensations of the air became muted as Matthew slipped out of consciousness.

o0OO0oo0OO0oo

Matthew felt like he was coming to the surface - emerging from the depths of nothingness into pain. He expected light, but instead, reverberating noises greeted him again.

This dream was familiar and alien at the same time. He kept drifting in and out of it. This time when he strained to move his head toward his dad and struggled to open his eyes the heaviness was less. He tried again to open his eyes, but his eyelashes only bent against the gauze making a weird squeaky noise. _When had I ever heard my eyelashes?_ This thought was interrupted by an explosion of pain across his eyelids. A moan escaped his throat.

His dad drew in his breath sharply, "Mattie! Oh, God, Mattie."

Matthew flinched as his dad's voice rang through his skull. It was powerful and loud. His dad's heartbeat quickened - sweat burst from the surface of his skin.

Jack grabbed Matthew's hand. He felt callouses scrap across the back of his hand, warmth spreading across his palm, and his father's pulse rhythmically pushed through his fingers.

Matthew felt his own heart speed up in response and felt the sting of perspiration under his arms, on his neck, the small of his back, between his thighs, the backs of his knees. He wanted to fling his arms around his dad's neck, but they didn't move.

"Dad?" His voice cracked and scraped out of his throat. He thought it would be a whisper, barely audible, but it sounded like a megaphone inside his head.

 _How is everything so impossibly loud?_

"Oh, Mattie. I'm so sorry," his dad sobbed - his pain palpable in each beat of his heart.

"Dad… why are you shouting? It hurts. The noise hurts. Can you make it stop?"

"The noise? What noise, Matt?"

"Everything. It's so loud. Stop shouting. Please."

"I'm whispering, Matt. C'mon, son," he implored. "It's quiet in here."

Matt started to whimper but stopped. He heard his dad's heart start to race. Jack was alarmed. Matt didn't want to upset him, but the noise was intolerable.

There was a vibration like the earth under him was moving, pulsing. He realized that the building was rocking as cars and trucks went by on the road outside - the swaying of the building moved in concert with the noises of the traffic.

His dad's chair scraped the floor as he pushed back. It was as grating as fingernails on a chalkboard - metal against linoleum with bits of sand and dirt crushed between the two surfaces. Matt felt his dad's weight shift and knew he was standing now almost as if he had seen the movement.

"I'm going to get the nurse. Hang on, son. I'll be right back."

The sound of Jack's footsteps ricocheted off the walls made Matt feel like he was going to vomit - saliva rose in his mouth, bile scorched his throat, and the room lurched in an oscillating spiral. Vomit burst from his throat in an arch that didn't touch his lips - the splatter as it hit the metal railing, the sheets, the linoleum was akin to the force of a hydrant being opened. The acridity burned his nose - it was pure acid. There was nothing in his stomach.

He could hear his dad barking his plea for help for him as if Jack were right next to him though he knew that Jack had traveled a distance down the corridor from the receding sound of the footsteps… they weren't as painfully loud. Other footsteps were coming back with his dad's and he braced himself for the onslaught as the clatter entered his room.

A sob escaped his lips as he turned his head to heave again.

He heard his dad slip in the vomit and catch himself. The nurse behind Jack brushed up against him as she proceeded to Matt's bedside and jostled the tubes that were attached to his hand.

 _That hurts!_

The needle embedded in his vein moved as liquid entered his bloodstream and the pain began to lessen, the room melted away, the noises faded and he was grateful for the peace at the same time that the questions rose to the surface.

 _What was going on? Why am I in the hospital?_

As he drifted off, he saw a truck barreling down the street toward him…

o0OO0oo0OO0oo

This time as he came to, it didn't feel so alien.

 _But why was it so loud?_

It was as if the volume had been turned up on the world all of the sudden.

When he took deep breaths and focused on his dad's heartbeat ( _he is here again_ \- Matt realized. _He is sleeping. His breath is steady and slow…_ ) it was easier to bear. He pushed the panic away - desperate to not throw up again.

He could still taste the acridity in his mouth. He could tell that he was in clean sheets and in a new gown… _from what?… the smell of laundry detergent and bleach was stronger. What time is it?… wait… what day is it?_ … he noticed a steady ticking alongside the rolling and thundering of the other noises. _A clock?_ It was coming from beside the bed… on a table. _A watch?_ Matt tried turning his head slowly. He heard his hair against the pillow and the bandages that covered his eyes… _my eyes._ He still couldn't open them. Still couldn't see.

Trying to move his eyelids still sent explosions of pain across his face and into his head. He slowed down. Breathed again. Listened again. He slowly reached his left hand toward his dad, making an effort to not shift the blankets… his arm felt like it is made of stone… _it is so heavy._ He slid his hand under the metal railing that seemed to be radiating cold air. He reached toward his dad's warmth and found his knee.

Jack flinched at the touch, a rattling noise sounded… Matt recognized the familiar (though loud) sound of rosary beads… and his gravelly voice burst into the room - bouncing off the walls.

"Matt?"

"Dad… what happened? What's going on?"

Jack took in his breath sharply. "Oh, son… " he despaired. Matt could hear the rosary beads again.

"God help me… " Jack begged quietly.

Matt could hear the toll of this in his dad's heartbeat. He wanted to soothe, but he also desperately wanted to know. He needed to know. He couldn't make sense of it.

"Mattie… a truck… an old man… you saved him… a barrel… it fell, chemicals splashed across your face… your eh . . ." The word caught.

He tried again, "Your eyes."

Jack's voice filled the room, though Matt knew his dad was trying to speak softly. He could hear the saliva in his mouth, the clicking as his teeth met, his hammering heartbeat, and rumbling from his gut. He could hear the lights humming overhead - he knew they were on by the piercing whine.

Images started to flash in front of Matt, memories of the accident. He started to piece them together. The righteous anger he felt while defending himself, the shame of getting in a fight despite everything his dad had always demanded of him, and then the man with a white stick crossing the street unaware of the careening truck. Matt couldn't remember why he ran and pushed the man out of the way - he just did it. He couldn't watch it happen and not do anything - especially when everyone else seemed frozen.

He remembered the terrible sting of the green liquid as it burned his face… his eyes. And then everything fading to a pinprick of light until that, too, was gone.

"Dad" he whispered, "what about my eyes?"

He knew, but he had to ask. He felt the fear shutting down his gut as it worked its way up to his constricting throat. His mouth flooded with a metallic-tinged saliva again. He willed his bile to stay put. His dad held onto Matt's outstretched hand - the warmth of his large hands surrounding Matt's smaller hand. The rosary beads pressed into Matt's skin.

"Mattie… the doctors… they don't know yet… but . . ." And the "but" hangs in the air.

"But what?" He managed to utter. Not wanting to hear, but needing to hear it.

"But they think… there's really not a chance… that you'll be able to… see again."

Jack let the air he'd been holding in out in a long, ragged sigh and Matt felt his dad's heat spiking out around him in waves of distress. His pulse pushed against Matt's palm unevenly.

He felt distress emanating from his own body, too. His emotions had never been this palpable before… it was like he could feel them in the air. He felt like he was in another body… _this couldn't be my body._

"But Dad… I'm not… blind."

The disbelief was more than just fear and anger. Nothing had color or pattern, but he knew where people were. He knew more about them than he's ever noticed before. He hadn't even opened his eyes yet. There were still bandages over them.

"No, Mattie. You're not… "

But Jack couldn't say the word.

Matt felt himself slipping toward a dark hole of fear and confusion and grasped on to the noise at the bedside. "What's that ticking noise?"

Jack seemed surprised. His shirt rustled as he turned his head toward the table and the rhythmic clicks.

"You can hear that? It's a watch. The Lighthouse people brought it."

"Oh… Who?… What time is it?"

"Um."

Scratching noises made Matt think his dad was opening a small cardboard box. "Uh. It's 4:32 pm. But this watch… it… it is for you. They said they'd teach you how to read it. It has bumps.… um. Brah… uh… Braille."

"I'm not blind!" Matt felt a rush of anger. He started to turn his head suddenly but stopped as pain exploded across his eyes and the back of his head.

"Oh, ow," he groaned.

"Mattie, are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay!" he said it emphatically, but didn't shout.

It hurt too much and he was getting tired. He felt like he was starting to fade out again. He had no energy. But he wanted to know before he goes under again.

"Dad, what day is it? When did all this… happen?"

"It happened three days ago. It's Tuesday."

"Mattie?"

"I'm tired, Dad… I'm sorry," he said softly. A tear slipped out from under the bandage and made a slow passage down his cheek. His dad's rough fingers caught it.

o0OO0oo0OO0o

This time when he came to he felt more prepared for the alien plane he seemed to exist on now. The sounds rushed at him gathering momentum as he came to the surface of consciousness and he knew how to brace himself for the onslaught so that it didn't overpower him.

He noticed his dad wasn't by his bedside this time. _Hm. Strange. Where is he?_ He wondered.

His limbs felt less heavy and when he turned his head carefully, the pain wasn't as great as it had been before. He tried lifting it off the pillow… the muscles in his neck straining. He managed an inch or so and then gently placed it back without serious discomfort.

His fingers brushed against the coarse hospital sheets as he moved his left hand up to his face (his right hand still ached with the IV needle… he could feel liquid moving through the needle one drop at a time) to carefully explore the bandages. He felt the grid pattern of the mesh gauze… overlapping squares of thread in a different pattern and softer than the sheets. The skin around his eyes still felt stretched thin. His face felt swollen. He imagined he looked a mess.

His stomach contracted as his mind was filled with grim thoughts that he might never see his reflection again… _would I look more like my dad as I got older? I've been_ _looking forward to that_ … he realized numbly. Moving his arm, he noticed that there was a bandage on his arm that he hadn't registered before. Maybe the liquid that burned his face and eyes hit his skin there, too. It wasn't as sore as his face, though.

His dad's voice came into his awareness… picked out from the other voices that punctuated the din of noises that seemed to compose his new world. He was down the corridor.

Matt had stopped wondering how he could hear all this so clearly… as if there was a crowd of people in his room… he just could.

His dad was talking to a man who was responding with a lot of big medical terms… he spoke with an faint East Indian accent… _a doctor?_

Matt heard his name and focused even more intently on what they are saying "… severe alkali chemical burns… grade four… likely severe visual impairment… surgery to repair the eyelids… it's unlikely that there will be any residual vision . . ." Matt's hammering heart made it hard for him to hear much more except some words that broke through: "rehabilitation… social worker… lighthouse for the blind… recovery… reentry into public school… guide dog… cane… braille."

Matt tried to tune it out, but he couldn't block it completely. Not being able to focus on his dad's heartbeat made him feel like he was drowning in noise.

As he struggled to hear Jack's familiar rhythm over his own heartbeat, he realized that he could hear the blood moving through his own heart and he felt nauseous at the thought.

He found the call button on the side of his bed and pressed it, bracing for the piercing beep that sounded in the hallway at the nurses' station. It felt like it took an eternity for the nurse at the station to silence it and notify the nurse on duty that he had called, though Matt knew from the ticking at his bedside from the watch that it was only moments.

He could hear the nurse interrupting his dad and the doctor to tell them that Matt pressed the call button and he heard their footsteps approaching, while the doctor explained to Jack that they would talk to Matt now that he was awake. Matt steeled himself against the tremendous tramping as they entered the room.

"Oh, good! Matt, you're awake," the doctor addressed him as he approached the bed.

Matt grimaced in response to the doctor's loud voice despite bracing himself for it beforehand.

Matt heard his dad go to the other side of the bed and settle into the chair - grabbing Matt's hand as he did so.

"Who are you?" Matt asked, trying to keep his anger and frustration out of his voice, but not really succeeding.

He flushed realizing how rude he had been.

"Oh, yes. I apologize. I'm Doctor Patel. I'm an ophthalmologist, an eye doctor, and you've been under my care since you were brought in on Sunday."

His voice was warm, his breath spicy… curry and cardamom the strongest odors Matt recognized… and he seemed to be a bit shorter and slighter than Jack, his voice giving away his relative height and his step not as heavy as Jack's.

He laid his hand on Matt's shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

"What does severe alkali chemical burns mean?" Matt got straight to the point.

"What?… Oh, did the nurse tell you that?" Dr. Patel inquired, pulling his warm hand from Matt's shoulder.

"Um. Yeah." Matt lied. He didn't know why he was compelled to hide his acute hearing from the doctor, but he felt sure that his life would get a lot more complicated if the doctor knew how much he could hear and sense.

He just wanted to go home. He was tired of this bed and being awoken at all hours of the night to be poked and prodded and drained of blood. He was tempted to yank out the I.V. and the catheter and run home that instant until he really thought about it. He willed himself to calm down.

Dr. Patel continued, unaware of the internal struggle of his patient.

"Well, you see the liquid from the canister from the truck that splashed into your eyes was a highly toxic substance."

"Like acid?" Matt asked.

"Well, actually acid would have been better in this case. This was an alkaline substance.… You've had chemistry in school?"

At the bedside, Jack let out a long sigh, an attempt to calm his racing heart.

"Yes."

"When it comes to the eyes, alkalis can do more damage and sadly that is the case here."

"But you haven't even taken the bandages off my eyes yet. How do you know what the damage is?"

"We have our suspicions based on how your pupils react to light. True, there is swelling that needs to go down before we can know for sure. I'm hopeful that it has gone down."

"When do the bandages come off?"

"Well, we need to change them now, so this is as good a time as any. I'll talk to your nurse about gathering the supplies. I'll be back in a moment."

His steps receded down the hall at a clipped pace.

Jack squeezed Matt's hand. Matt let the silence build between them. He was scared, but he didn't want to let on to his dad; didn't want to add to his burden, his pain. It felt good to feel his strong, calloused hand holding his… feeling his dad's steady pulse.

The nurse and Dr. Patel came back into the room. Matt recognized his favorite nurse Katie by her scent and the sound of her steps. He was glad. He liked the way she smelled… a not too overpowering vanilla and mint that hovered over the more earthy scents of her perspiration and oils. Her voice, too, was easy to listen, too. Sincere and mellow. She seemed younger than some of the other nurses - still, she had a self-confidence that put him at ease. He relaxed a little knowing that it would be Katie's gentle hands that would be taking care of the bandages.

"Hi Matt, it's Katie. I'm going to be assisting Dr. Patel."

He smiled weakly in her direction and heard her gathering the supplies from the drawers in the room and placing them on a steel tray… the clink of metal hitting metal, the crackle of gauze encased in paper wrappers.

He could hear the doctor over at the windows closing the blinds and smell a burst of dust as it was disturbed in the process.

Katie came over to the bed, and he breathed in her scent as she helped him sit up in the bed, placing pillows behind his back for support. The room started to spin around as he sat up and pain radiated from his eyes to the back of his head.

He had let go of his dad's hand when Katie and Dr. Patel came back into the room, and now he reached out for it again and grabbed onto the cool metal railing surrounding his bed with his other hand. He let out an involuntary groan.

"How are you doing, Matt?" Dr. Patel inquired.

"I'm fine," Matt said stiffly.

He wanted desperately to have the bandages off… to know for certain.

"Okay, then we're going to proceed. You let us know if it is too much."

"Okay."

"Okay, Matt, I'm going to start taking the bandages off," Katie said.

Her small warm fingers started working under the adhesive that was holding the bandages to his face, pulling each layer off gently until he could feel the stagnant hospital air on his newly exposed skin.

There were square bandages directly over his eyes that were stuck to his skin by antibiotic cream and fluids that needed a little coaxing to come off, but they did with only a little bit of pain.

He drew in a sharp breath. He was getting used to it. He was hoping for a bit of light to shine through his eyelids even though they were still closed, but he couldn't see any. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids were stuck closed.

"Hang on there. I'm going to clean up your eyes a little before you open them, okay? This may sting a little."

Katie pressed a wet, cold piece of gauze against his left eye and then his right, gently wiping away the cream. It stung deeply and he drew in shuddering breaths.

Finally, she was done.

"Okay, Matt. I want you to very slowly open your eyes and tell us what you see."

Jack shifted beside him, still holding his hand, his pulse quickening.

Matt lifted his eyelids with hope but already knowing. It was the same darkness, nothing changed. He squeezed his dad's hand.

"I'm s . s . sorry, Dad," his voice broke. "I can't see anything. It's dark. It's still so dark."


	2. Getting Around

Matt lay in the hospital bed going over the events from that evening in his mind . . . the bandages had come off, and the same nothingness was before him. Dr. Patel had examined his eyes, eyelids, and the tender skin around his eyes and reported that they were healing well and that he didn't think Matt would need reconstructive surgery on his eyelids as he had feared earlier. Katie had gently applied more antibiotic cream and replaced the bandages with slightly smaller ones. Dr. Patel had talked to Matt about rehabilitation that he'd start the next day with people from Lighthouse for the Blind. . . . the blind. Matt flinched. He wanted to push that word far, far away from him. He was stuck with a label that he'd never be able to shed. Placed in a box. And he thought that being a redhead was bad enough. It would be the first thing people noticed about him from this point going forward and he wouldn't even be able to see the expressions on their faces as they realized it (well, maybe that would be okay, at least). The word might as well be made out of lead; he felt as if he was being pressed into the earth under the weight of it. He reflected that he had stopped wanting to shout at people everytime they applied the word blind to him, so that was something. It still rankled him, though. And he could tell his dad didn't like it either. His dad who was so powerful and yet was beaten to a pulp by these words, by the confinement in the hospital, having to constantly talk to all the doctors and nurses . . . he was definitely out of his element. Matt wanted to rage at him at the same time that he wanted to protect him from this unfamiliar world they'd be thrust into when he had run out into the street to save that old man. His dad who had always done everything within his power to protect him and keep him safe, was as helpless and lost as he was . . . they were both afloat in a sea of nothingness.

Jack had gone home. Matt hadn't wanted him to go, but he could hear how tired his dad was and tried to put on a brave front. It must have been good enough because Jack had left shortly after Dr. Patel's steps faded away down the corridor. And Matt felt absolutely alone despite the incredible din that echoed all around him . . . the beeping, clanging, hammering pandemonium that surrounded him constantly. Not to mention all the odors . . . the hospital was a rank place . . . and people held a bouquet of aromas he'd never noticed before. Some were pleasant and some were nauseating. He was starting to get used to it and actually was able to filter some of it out. _Thank God,_ he thought wryly.

Matt had been thinking about the things he wasn't going to see . . . cataloging them in his mind until he finally shook himself mentally and sternly told himself to knock it off . . . the voice in his mind a perfect imitation of Jack laying down the law. He was slipping into a hole that was even darker than the world before his eyes. He didn't need to do that to himself, he told himself firmly.

Now that he was no longer slipping in and out of consciousness, the catheter had been removed. The memory of it made him shudder - he shook his head slightly trying to erase the pain and embarrassment from his memory. He was glad it was gone, though, it was really unsettling to feel so out of control of something as simple as pissing. And then he realized with a growing dread that his bladder was filling and he was going to need to get to the toilet soon. He pressed the call button - wincing at the piercing sound as it registered at the nurses station down the hall. Katie had been adamant that when he needed to go, he had to call them. He fought with the desire to put it off for as long as possible and the fear of urinating all over himself. He felt the heat rising in his neck and cheeks at the thought. _Man. This is all so humiliating._ He wondered who was going to answer the call. Katie's shift was over at 7:30 . . . it would be the night crew.

He hadn't yet stepped out of bed yet. Just sitting up had been an ordeal.

Pretty soon he heard steps coming toward his room down the corridor . . . they were heavier steps and slower, accompanied with a bit of a wheezing breath and labored heartbeat. It was Vicki. He was relieved. She kind of reminded him of Aunty Grace from his building . . . not just in age and stature, but also in her kindness that wasn't too smothering like some of the women from Mass. Vicki was thoughtful, but at the same time she didn't mess around.

"What is it, honey? What do you need?"

"I . . . um . . . need to go . . . um . . . get to the. . . um. . . bathroom. . . please."

"Oh, okay then. Have you been out of bed yet?"

"No."

"Okay, then let's take it easy. No need rushing things. . . . unless you really have to go, that is."

"I'm okay. I mean. I need to go, but I don't have to rush."

"Let me get your I.V. sorted out." Matt heard her unhooking the tubes from the bed railing and rolling the I.V. pole around over to the side of the bed. She lowered the railing. Matt almost jumped out of bed as the metal hinges squealed in protest.

"Hang on there, honey. Boy, that gave you a fright. It just needs some oiling." She put a comforting hand on his arm.

Matt held his ears. _God, it hurt._ It made him a bit nauseous, too.

"You okay? You look pale."

"I'm okay." Matt muttered.

"Okay, let's do this. Now sit up slowly, like. You can do this, honey."

Matt leaned to his right on his elbow and started to sit up really slowly. His head was pounding and his muscles protesting. _How'd I get so weak?_

He finally was sitting up. Vicki drew the sheets off his legs. The cold air brought up goose bumps.

"Okay, now put your legs down. Nice and easy."

Matt slid his legs over the edge and sat still. The room was tilting and the noise and odors of the hospital were starting to assault him again . . . his filters falling away as he exerted himself. He groaned with dread. _Am I going to puke again? No._ He told himself firmly. _You can do this. Focus._ He listened to Vicki's heart beat. It was calming, though labored. Her wheezing breath smelled like Big Red gum - sharply cinnamony.

His gut settled down and the room stopped tilting so much.

"You ready, hon?" Vicki's warm hands were on his upper arms, her breath close to his face.

"Yeah. I think so." Matt slid forward a bit until his feet reached the cold tile. He could feel the seam where two pieces of the linoleum fit together under his big toe. The hospital gown felt flimsy and revealing, especially in the back where it gapped. He could feel the hospital sheets underneath his bare butt.

He shifted his weight to his feet, but didn't stand up. He wasn't sure his legs were going to hold. They felt like jelly. He put his hands on Vicki's shoulders to steady himself.

"That's right, hon. You've got this."

Slowly he pressed down through his feet and started to lift off the bed. The room began to tilt more and his legs felt so wobbly, the muscles in his thighs and calves burning from the work. He could smell his sweat as it broke out in his pits . . . it was stinky, acrid and filled with stress. The gown fell away from his body as he stood up and he felt even more naked underneath it, but he kept going, feeling like the bathroom must be a million miles away. He could hear the fan whirring in the bathroom, near the door to the room. He knew that it wasn't too far away. Just steps really. But at this rate, the next shift would be coming on before he made it there. He felt like he was learning to walk again, reduced to toddlerhood. Everything that he knew about this room seemed to be turned on its head as he moved through the space.

He concentrated on shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he shuffled forward.

"You're doing it, babe. Almost there." Vicki encouraged as she pulled the IV stand along . . . the wheels rattling.

His breathing was as raspy Vicki's and he could hear his heart pounding beneath his ribs. Finally, he could feel the air from the bathroom fan more directly and knew that they were at the threshold.

"Okay, hon, I'm going to turn you so that you can sit down on the toilet, okay? Matt nodded, embarrassed but relieved to be sitting instead of trying to figure out how to aim into the toilet. _God, would he have to sit to pee for the rest of his life. Shit._

Vicki turned him and then guided his hand to the cold metal railings on either side of the toilet. He could feel the cool porcelain on the toilet against his calf. He felt dizzy and focused on steadying himself. In the small space, the sounds pinged off each other in a way that made the space more clear to him. He felt he knew where the walls were, how high the ceiling was, where the sink was. It was weird to not see the room and yet know it.

"You okay, hon? You want me to help you sit down?"

"No, it's okay. I can do this." Matt was determined. He let go of the railing to pull his hospital gown forward, swaying a bit. Vicki put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Thanks. Um. Can I do this by myself, please?" Matt felt heat rising in his throat and face.

"Yes, but I've got to know that you're sitting down okay. You'd be surprised how many people fall down in the bathroom at the hospital. First sit down, then I'll just stand outside the door."

Who knew peeing would be such an ordeal. An image of his bathroom at home flashed through his mind. He could picture it down to the frayed toothbrushes in a cup by the faucets, the worn bath mat next to the tub, and the way the light filtered in through the small window in the early morning.

 _I just want to go home._


	3. TMI

Matt slept well after the excursion - completely exhausted by the trip to the toilet and the subsequent removal of the IV from his hand. He wasn't sure if it was the injection spot that hurt more or the where the adhesive had been . . . it seemed to take a layer of his skin with it.

He woke to the sound of a cart clattering through the corridor, slowly approaching his room. The squeaking wheels of the cart emitted a piercing squeak that jolted him out of his sleep as soon as it exited the elevator and started down the long corridor. The aroma of the hot food reached him soon after - it was the food cart. His stomach rumbled in response and he realized that he was hungry for the first time since arriving at the hospital. As the cart made its way slowly down the corridor, stopping at each room along the way, Matt started to lose his appetite. The odors were repulsive and overpowering. He could identify some of the food . . . the bland, overcooked food typical of institutions . . . he tried to identify it . . . there was something that smelled sulfury like a swamp that made him gag as the air invaded his nose and hit the back of his throat . . . even at this distance . . . C _ould it be food?_ _Maybe it was something else. Maybe someone had fallen in the Hudson . . ._ he dismissed the idea as the smell got stronger as the food cart made its way down the hall. He could hear the food service worker greeting patients in the rooms and the scratching noises as the plastic trays slid across the overbed tables, the squeak of the wheels as the tables were adjusted. He tried to concentrate on the other odors underneath the swampy smell. There was one that smelled vaguely of bread and cheese . . . grilled cheese sandwiches? He inhaled a bit more and determined that they were oversaturated in oil. He picked out something else . . . fruity and sickenly sweet . . . fruit cups. There was something else . . . kind of sugary and milky with a hint of vanilla and another odor he couldn't place. He wasn't sure what it was. Identifying the food made it a little less offensive . . . _though maybe I'm not so hungry after all._

Finally, the cart made it to his room and the now familiar voice of the food service worker bounced off the walls in his room as he repeated the phrase he had said all down the corridor at each room: "Foodservice! I have your lunch!"

Matt had moved his bed to a seated position in anticipation of lunch. The man placed the tray on the overbed table and adjusted it over Matt's lap. There was a pregnant pause as it seemed the man stood and stared at Matt. His heart rate seemed to increase. Matt turned his head in his direction, the question furrowing his brow as he tried to puzzle out what was going on.

"What is it?" Matt asked.

"Oh, sorry, kid. I just realized that you can't see your food and you need me to explain what it is. I'm . . . I'm just not very good at this stuff." The man fumbled.

Matt sighed. "It's okay. Me, neither."

"Okay . . . so this here is a grilled cheese sandwich . . ." Matt heard a plate shift slightly on the tray. "And this is a fruit cup." There was a corresponding sound as the man moved the fruit cup. Matt brought his hands to the overbed table and started to feel for the tray, and then lightly touch the plates. He pulled back when his fingers dipped into a sticky liquid. He put them in his mouth to lick off the sweetness . . . _Oh! Tapioca pudding!_ He felt around for a napkin and felt a blush rise in his neck and face when he didn't find it immediately. The man seemed equally embarrassed. "Uh. Oh. Dang. Sorry. I'm supposed to describe things like a clock."

"What!?" Matt was confused.

"Okay, see. Like the face of a clock. Your grilled cheese sandwich is at 6 o'clock and your fruit cup is at 3 o'clock. And see up here at 12 o'clock is a carton of milk. And, uh, your broccoli is at 9 o'clock, and at 8 o'clock is your tapioca pudding. Your utensils and napkins are on the right side of the big plate and there are some packets for salt and pepper."

 _Ah, broccoli. That's what smells like a swamp. No one fell in the Hudson today. . ._

Matt finally understood. He was supposed to imagine the face of a clock and from there understand where the food on his tray was located.

"How do I tell which packet is the salt and the pepper?" He asked as he fingered the packets which seemed to be the exact same size and consistency. But he answered his own question pretty quickly as he felt them. He could smell the pepper as he moved the packet and the salt, too, for that matter. The man confirmed it by telling him that the packet in his right hand was the pepper and the packet in his left hand was salt. Matt set them down on either side of the grilled cheese sandwich plate.

"You okay now? See, it's that I've got to deliver the other trays." Matt heard his feet shuffling toward the door.

"Yeah, thanks. I think I've got this . . . say, what's your name?"

"Mike. Mike from food service."

"Thanks, Mike from Food Service!" Mike's footsteps started to recede.

"Oh, wait. Can you do one thing for me? Can you take the broccoli away?" Matt was embarrassed to ask, afraid of offending, but he was certain that he wouldn't be able to eat anything at all if it stayed in the room. He knew he was going to struggle as it was . . . the smells were so strong. "It just has such a strong smell." Matt wrinkled his nose.

"Oh, sure man. No veggies for you!" The bowl containing the broccoli tinged against the grilled cheese plate as Mike grabbed it off the tray.

Once Matt was sure that Mike was gone and off to the next room, he started poking around the tray - feeling the rims of the bowls that held the fruit and the pudding, patting the crunchy top of the grilled cheese sandwich. He picked up the grilled cheese sandwich and discovered that it was cut in two on the diagonal when it pulled apart into two halves. He set one down and started eating the other half. The texture of the toasted bread (fried, really, there was so much oil) scratched across his lips and tongue in a way he didn't remember ever noticing before. The cheese was still warm inside and had a tang he couldn't quite place. One bite was all he was able to stomach. He found the spoon at the right of his plate and picked up the fruit cup. Some of the liquid slurped over the edge of the cup as he brought it up to his nose to sniff. He felt the dribbles seep into his hospital gown and soak through to his skin . . . it was cold and syrupy. _Ug._ He stirred the contents with the spoon and felt the squishy solids in the cup move around as he tried to distinguish the different fruit pieces, but he wasn't brave enough to try eating any of them. He set it down again and tried to mop up the spill with his napkin, but felt like he just spread it around more.

He found that it was hard to keep the congealed pudding on the spoon and he kept closing his mouth around an empty spoon. He paid closer attention to the weight of the spoon and finally, a few bites made it in his mouth. He was surprised at how flavorful it was, better than he ever remembered. He could discern the vanilla, sugar, and scalded milk. The texture of the gooey rice was almost too much and so he set it down. Most of the missed bites had fallen back into the bowl he was holding under his chin, but one slid like a slug down the front of his hospital gown, not far from the fruit cup syrup. He tried to find a dry spot on the napkin to wipe it up. He wasn't sure he was getting it, though. He felt grains of rice stuck to the gown and was having a hard time getting them off his fingers. He wanted to wash his hands . . . his fingers were sticking together.

Matt was focusing so much attention on cleaning himself up that it took him a moment to realize that his dad had exited the elevator and was coming down the hallway toward his room . . . his steps were distinctive as was his signature aroma . . . Old Spice and his musky sweat. He must have been working out at the gym before taking a break for lunch.

Matt was relieved that his dad was on his way, though he hurried to finish cleaning himself up - he didn't want to look like a toddler covered in food when his dad came in the room. It had only been half a day, but it seemed like he had been gone forever. _I hope he's bringing the underwear that I asked him to bring!_

The crinkling of a paper bag made Matt hopeful.

"Hi, Dad!" Matt said as soon as his steps crossed the threshold. Jack seemed taken aback. "How did you know it was me?" he blurted out.

"Oh, I guess I just recognized your footsteps and your cologne."

"Wow. That's pretty nifty, I guess." Jack's aroma filled the small space and Matt inhaled his scent. It was strong, and comforting and did a fair job of covering up the sulfury smell of broccoli that lingered in the room.

Jack plopped into the seat on the left side of the bed and Matt heard the paper bag crinkle as it was set on the bedside table.

"What did you bring in the bag, Dad?"

"You can hear that, too? You're amazing, son!" Matt could hear the surprise and pleasure in his voice. "It's just the underwear you asked me to bring. I see you're eating your lunch."

"More like wearing it. I think I'm done." Matt groaned.

"What? You only had a couple bites! You've got to eat more than that if they are going to let you out of here anytime soon."

"Dad. . ." Matt's voice was cautious. "How much is this place costing? How are we affording it?" The worry surfaced and sprang from his lips as a rock settled in his gut. He wondered why it didn't occur to him earlier to ask.

Matt heard his dad rub his calloused fingers over his stubbly chin and let out a breathy sigh that carried the scent of onions.

"Hey, Mattie. Don't you worry about it, okay? I'll figure it out. I always do." But Matt could hear the weight of the concern in his father's voice as well as hear how his heart sped up.

Matt tossed around for an easier topic. _The upcoming fight._ "How's training for the match going, Dad?"

"Oh. Oh, good, I suppose." But his voice lacked his usual enthusiasm. The stone in Matt's gut sank deeper as he realized that his dad was distracted and not focusing on the match. It was a big one and they needed it, needed the cash it might bring, more than ever. Not just to cover this month's rent and groceries . . . and keep the lights on . . . _Well, maybe we can save a bit of money there._ Matt grimaced at the thought.

"Hey, Dad. Can you hand me that bag?" Matt pushed the overbed table to the side and reached his hand toward his dad. The bag touched his palm and he closed his fingers around it, then pulled his legs out from under the sheets and swung them over the side of the bed. He felt a lot steadier this time as his feet came in contact with the cold linoleum. _It was probably a good idea to eat, even if it was pretty horrid._

"Matt, wait. Let me help you." His Dad sprang up and came around the other side of the bed.

Matt was grateful for his Dad's arm around his waist and slid his arm over his shoulders after transferring the bag to the other hand.

"Where are you headed?"

"To the bathroom. I want to wash my hands and put on my briefs. I hate hanging out of this gown."

o0OO0oo0OO0o

Not too long after his dad left, Matt heard Katie's familiar steps as she hurried down the corridor. As Katie sped into the room, Matt was overwhelmed by the scent of blood. Katie's heart was beating fast. Suddenly Matt was alarmed. "Are you hurt?" he asked sitting up quickly as she approached him and grabbing the side of his face as a searing pain lanced his head - he sat up too quickly. "Why are you bleeding?" He didn't direct his question to her face, but instead to her midsection as if he were trying to discern where the smell of blood was coming from.

"What!?" Her voice incredulous as her temperature rose suddenly. "No, I'm not hurt."

"But I smell blood." Matt countered, agitation and worry ringing in his voice.

"I . . ." Her voice got quiet. "You can smell . . . that? How can you smell blood?" Her heartbeat sped up.

He realized that she was embarrassed and then it began to dawn on him. "Oh, God! I'm an idiot!" He cringed.  
"I'm so sorry. I didn't realize. I just thought you were hurt . . . I'm sorry." He gulped, feeling his own blood as it rushed into his throat and face in mortification.

She hesitated and asked quietly, "Do I smell that . . . bad?"

"Oh, No. no. no. no." He rushed in response. "It's just . . . since the accident . . . I can smell things really strongly. Seriously. No one else can smell it. It's just me . . . I'm a freak."

The silence stretched out palpably. Katie was still, hovering near the bed where she had come to a sudden stop. She drew in a deep, sharp breath. "Oh, I need to hurry - sorry Matt, I need to get your vitals and get to my other patients. I was already late. . . . You're not a freak. I mean, that you can smell my period is weird. But I'm sure it happens all the time. Heightened senses do happen when people lose something. Though usually, it takes longer to develop, I think . . . " She paused.

He could hear her picking up the chart at the foot of the bed and her pen as it scratched the surface of the paper. He still felt hot from embarrassment. He'd never really thought about it much. Periods. He hadn't been around women much at all. Aunty Grace who lived in their building was a comforting presence and he spent a lot of time with her, especially when he was younger and she'd watch him when his dad had fights and couldn't be at home, but they didn't talk about the birds and bees. He remembered the uncomfortable sex ed classes at school in 5th grade, but it seemed so far removed from his own experiences, so foreign.

"I am really sorry, Katie. I . . ."

"Hey, don't worry about it. Really." And she sped out of the room nearly as quickly as she entered.


	4. Echolocation

Matt sat in his hospital bed listening to the snatches of conversations: from people walking by quickly in the corridors around his room and from the rooms opening up on to the corridors; from waiting rooms and nurses stations; from the various tvs and radios at all sorts of levels of volume; the phone conversations where one side easy to discern and the other side of the conversation sounded distant; the conversations that occurred as the elevators moved between floors and the way they were muffled and then would explode onto the floor once the doors opened. Even though he was isolated in his room, with the waves of conversation that were constantly crashing over him, he felt like he was in a stadium of people. At first he found it incredibly grating on his nerves, and gradually he was getting used to it. It helped if he focused on one thing, singled out a conversation and focused on it, rather than just letting all of it wash over him constantly. He had asked the nurse on duty for ear plugs and that helped him fall asleep a little faster, except that he found the noise of the foam in his ears nearly as annoying as the sounds he was trying to escape.

Matt heard a rhythmic tapping that rings of metal against linoleum in concert with soft footsteps coming closer down the corridor outside his room. It stopped outside his door. Odors wafted in - a mixture of soap, laundry detergent, strong coffee, onions, cumin, and something else he couldn't quite place. He heard a faint rustling noise - fingertips on the wall, maybe? Then the tapping tentatively sounded against the door frame and there was a knock. He knew the knock was meant to be gentle, but to Matt, it sounded like a gun has been fired into the room. He flinched.

"Hello?"

"Is this Matthew Murdock's room?" The voice of the man was scratchy with age. It was not as painful to listen to as his dad's booming voice. He could hear the man's heart hammering - _he sounds nervous. He has an accent . . . Spanish._

"Yes . . . you can come in." A question lingered in the air. _Who are you?_ But something was familiar about this man. There's something that Matt couldn't quite place, but he knew he'd met him before. His voice wasn't familiar - it was something else. His smell. But the memory was indistinct.

"Thanks." The metal tapping noise sounded different now . . . shorter distances between taps. The noise pinged off the walls almost making them visible to Matt - as if they lit up with the sound, but wasn't light. Maybe it was just his imagination filling in the missing pieces his eyes were no longer providing. _Maybe my mind is so used to seeing that it creates its own pictures? Is that really any different than what normal vision does?_ The pages from a book he read at the library about color and how light enters the eye and how that information is converted into images by the brain pop into his mind. _I should read that again . . . crap. I can't read books anymore._ The memory of all the hours spent pulling dusty books off the shelves at the library excited about the mysteries he was about to uncover makes his throat tighten. Did his library even have books in braille?

He waited expectantly for the man to identify himself. _He must be blind, too._ _Is this my mobility instructor? Dave? I'm supposed to meet him today, but later in the day. No this is someone else. Someone who is feeling a lot of emotions right now . . . if I'm reading his heartbeat and sweat accurately._

The cane . . . _white cane, probably_ _. . ._ tings against the bed frame. Matt feels the tap vibrate through the bed frame as the sound rings out.

"Hi?" Matt says, the question still in his voice.

"Hi, Matt." His voice breaks a little as he speaks. Matt can hear that man shifting from foot to foot nervously. From the sound of it, he's now holding the cane in front of him, between his feet and leaning against it slightly.

"I'm Miguel Reyes. I'm the man you saved on Sunday. I came by to thank you." Matt can feel the relief slide off Miguel as he says these words as the air is expelled from his lungs.

"Oh! Wow. Yes. . . . Are you okay? Did you get hurt at all?" It occurred to Matt that he hadn't even asked about the man. He was embarrassed to realize that he was so caught up in his own trauma that he hadn't thought to ask.

"I am fine . . . thanks to you . . . _¡y gracias a Dios!"_ Miguel sighed.

"Do you want to sit down? There is a chair on the other side of the bed." Matt offered - all the years of courtesy and respect his dad and Auntie Grace had drilled into him kicking in automatically. Matt started to slide out of bed, wanting to help Miguel find the chair. He could feel Miguel's warmth radiating off his body, not far from where he was and he had a sense of the space in the room and how to navigate around the obstacles such as the overbed table that was now at the foot of his bed. Some of the monitoring equipment had been removed from the room (Matt was so relieved - even when they weren't beeping the electronic whine that they put out was so piercing.)

Miguel started to move toward the bed, tapping gently with his cane and then navigate around it. With each tap of the metal tip of the cane against the bed, Matt could hear the distance of the walls from the bed. He stood up and reached for Miguel, finding the fabric of his shirt, his arm. Still a little unsteady on his feet, Matt lurched a little and withdrew his hand.

"Do you want some help finding the chair, Mr. Reyes?"

" _Sí, gracías._ I mean . . . Yes, please. Thank you."

 _"_ _Hablo Español, Señor Reyes._ _"_ Matt said with his strong gringo accent and pleased to use one of the phrases that he learned in his Spanish classes at school.

 _"_ _¡Ah! ¿De veras? ¡Qué bueno que hablas Español, mí hijo_ _!"_ Miguel grasped Matt's right arm just above his elbow and waited patiently while Matt moved between him and the bed, and then holding his cane parallel to his body, fell in step behind Matt as they moved around the bed. _"_ _No hablo muy bien, entonces . . . Estoy aprendiendo."_

 _"_ _No, no . . . hablas bastante bien, mi hijo."_

Matt felt awkward being so close to someone he didn't know well, also, the irony of the situation began to dawn on him. Miguel was probably way more adept at moving around spaces in the dark than he was. _The blind leading the blind! Geez._

Miguel's cane tapped against the floor and in that moment, Matt heard the tap bounce off a square object hanging in the space over their heads at the foot of the bed. He stopped and Miguel stopped behind him.

"Oh, careful. There's something . . . a tv . . . to the right of us . . . at about 3 o'clock . . . just about level with your head, I think."

Miguel raised his cane up, and tapped it gently against the base of the monitor confirming Matt's guess.

"Oh, yes. _Gracías._ That could be a nasty bump." They moved around the bed to the other side. Matt could feel the coolness coming off from the windows.

 _"_ _Aquí esta la silla,_ _Señor Reyes."_

 _"_ _Gracías._ _"_

Miguel moved his cane until it came in contact with the chair and bent to find the arms, then turned and sat down while Matt found a perch on the bed. The railings had been folded down now that he was conscious and moving about more.

"Do you know someone else who is blind, _mi hijo?_

"No . . . er . . ." Matt hesitated. "Yes. I guess so . . . Why?"

"Oh, it seems like you know what to do. Most people just grab me by the arm or give me directions that I can't use. You did a nice job. _¡Bien hecho!_ _"_

"Thanks." Matt paused. He didn't know why he was hesitant to tell Miguel . . . _maybe I'm afraid he'll blame himself. . ._ He felt a kinship with this old man, though he barely knew him. Something had drawn their lives together. And now they shared more than that moment in time.

"That person I know . . . he's me. I'm blind." Matt felt like he was being dramatic, but he didn't know how else to tell him. He obviously hadn't heard from the nursing staff and hadn't picked it up from talking to Matt. How could he? He couldn't see the bandages over Matt's eyes.

 _"_ _¿Qué digas? ¡Madre de Dios! ¡No puede ser!_ What are you saying? How long have you been blind? How did you save me, then?"

"Since Sunday. I was blinded by some chemicals that splashed from the barrels that fell from the truck." Tears rose in Matt's eyes and throat. He hadn't talked about it since then. Miguel put out a hand and found Matt's knee and patted it in a comforting gesture.

 _"_ _Ay. No me digas eso. ¡Qué lastimá! ¡Qué barbaridad!"_ Matt could hear the tears in Miguel's voice, smell the salt as they were released from his tear ducts. He could hear the bones in Miguel's neck creak as he bent his head forward and could hear how his voice was now pitched to the floor instead of toward Matt.

 _"_ _No te preoccupes._ It'll be okay." Matt wanted to comfort Miguel.

"How did you know about the tv, then?" Miguel lifted his head up quickly.

"I don't know . . . I guess I heard it."

"But it wasn't on."

"Yeah, but your cane made a noise and I heard it bounce off the tv. Didn't you hear it?"

"No. That's . . . _¿como te dice?_ . . . echolocation."

"What's that?"

"Being able to tell where things are by the sounds. You must have very good hearing to be able to tell that. And so quickly after your accident. _¡Qué dicha!_ I have been blind for many years now . . . from glaucoma . . . but I still can't do this echolocation thing. Maybe just a little bit, but not like what you did."

Miguel stood up.

"I have to go. But can I come back? I came today to simply thank you. _Dar gracias._ But now. I feel that _Dios nos puso juntos_ . . . he meant for us to meet."

"Yes. I would like that. _Mucho gusto de conocerte._

 _"_ _Igualmente. Igualmente."_

Miguel tapped to the door.

 _"_ _Vaya con Dios, mijo."_

Translations:

 _*¡y gracias a Dios!_ And thanks be to God!

 _Sí, gracías._ Yes, thank you.

 _Hablo Español, Señor Reyes._ I speak Spanish, Mr. Reyes.

 _¡Ah! ¿De veras? ¡Qué bueno que hablas Español, mí hijo_ _!_ Oh, really? That's great that you speak Spanish, my son.

 _No hablo muy bien, entonces . . . Estoy aprendiendo._ I don't speak very well, I'm still learning.

 _No, no . . . hablas bastante bien, mi hijo._ No, no . . . you speak well enough, my son.

 _"_ _Aquí esta la silla,_ _Señor Reyes_ _."_ Here is the chair, Mr. Reyes.

 _mi hijo._ my son.

 _¡Bien hecho!_ Well done!

 _¿Qué digas? ¡Madre de Dios! ¡No puede_ _ser!_ What are you saying? Mother of God! It can't be!

 _"_ _Ay. No me digas eso. ¡Qué lastimá! ¡Qué barbaridad!"_ Ay. Don't tell me this! What sadness, what barbarity.

 _No te preoccupes._ Don't you worry.

 _¿como te_ _dice?_ How do you say it?

 _¡Qué dicha!_ What a joy!

 _Dar gracias._ Give thanks.

 _Dios nos puso juntos_ God put us together.

 _Mucho gusto de conocerte._ It was very nice to meet you.

 _Igualmente. Igualmente._ Equally, equally.

 _Vaya con Dios, mijo._ Go with God, son.


	5. Like a Bat

Miguel Reyes left Matt's room rather abruptly and Matt attributed his rapid departure to the way his heart accelerated as Matt described the aftermath of the accident - namely Matt's blinding. He listened to Miguel's progress down the corridor after he left the room and heard Miguel stop. He listened as someone approached him to ask if he needed assistance.

"Sir, are you okay? Can I help you? Do you want to sit down?" Matt recognized the woman's voice. She was the mother of a girl down the hall who was recovering from surgery.

"No. I mean, Yes, _gracias._ I just need to rest a moment and collect myself. Is there a chair nearby." Miguel asked graciously.

"Yes, right over here." Matt could hear them progress down the hall a ways to a small family waiting room where a tv was blaring a commercial about air conditioners. He imagined from his slightly staggering footsteps that Miguel being pulled along unceremoniously.

"Thank you very much, señora. This is fine. I just need a moment. _Estoy bien._ I'm fine. Really. You're very kind. _Gracias._ " Miguel insisted. Matt was tempted to venture down the hall to see if he could help out Miguel and slid off the edge of the bed to stand uncertainly by it. As he stood there thinking about it, he suspected he was the reason for Miguel's distress and that forcing himself on Miguel right now would only add to his anguish. Also, how would he explain how he knew where Miguel was, could likely find his way to him without running into obstacles, and had a pretty good idea of what was troubling him. _How do I even know that? How do I know that he's about 30 feet down the left corridor in the first waiting room, sitting in a chair against the west wall? That's just freaky. How do I know that the woman who helped him find the chair has returned to her daughter's room, rummaged around in a bag, and has turned down the tv and opened a book?_ Matt's breath quickened as he realized that his blindness was so different from Miguel's. His world was suddenly alive with information he had never had before with sight. _Miguel needed help finding that chair . . . both in my room and in the waiting room . . . he really didn't know where things were, that he was about to smack his head into the tv . . . whereas I know where things are . . . its like I can feel them, or sense them, or something._ He felt awe and fear at this awareness. How could he do these things? _Blindness meant limitations, darkness, not being able to **see** , for God's sake._

Matt moved toward the end of his bed, certain where the end of it was - he could feel coolness radiating off the metal frame and he could hear how the sheets and blankets muffled the sound as well as smell the institutional detergent and bleach used to clean them. The overtable stood at the end of the bed, over the foot, and tucked neatly underneath. Sound bounced off its form in a different way than it did the metal frame of the bed and the mattress and sheets of the bed. He could distinguish its form. He could feel it with his whole being - from his head to his toes and in a complete 360-degree radius. He could understand it as a whole form, too. It made him a little dizzy to comprehend that he could "see" it from all angles. It wasn't just the surface that he could detect. When he focused his attention on it, knew that it was made with hollow tubing that had holes ( _and that some kid had slipped some peas into the holes and now they were dried husks rattling at the bottom, near the wheels - ha!_ ). He reached out to touch it and confirmed that it was where he thought it was. He felt the surface of the table . . . it wasn't metal . . . _maybe a formica_? _Was it a faux wood grain? It didn't feel like wood_. He moved all the way to the end of the bed and reached up to where he knew the tv monitor stuck out from the wall - where Miguel would have run into it had Matt not warned him of it. Matt ran his hand over the screen - static jumped off the screen and made the hair on the back of his hand stand on end and he felt it charge through his body to exit his feet in a bit of a thrilling tremor. He could hear buzzing of the electricity in the wires at the back of the tv where it was plugged in, even though it wasn't on.

Matt placed a hand on the wall and gave into the pulsing life of the building and the streets surrounding it as it was throbbing under his palm, reverberating through his feet. He hadn't left this tiny, stale-air room in a nearly a week, but he felt like he was in the vibrating heart of the city.

Pressing his back against the wall, Matt focused his attention on Miguel again - able to pick him out from all the other bodies moving throughout the hospital wing - some stationary in beds, others bustling through corridors - by his unique heartbeat that Matt now recognized. Matt honed in on Miguel as he wiped his eyes with the tissue that the woman had given him and blew his nose, stuffed the tissue in his pocket, and then rose to his feet and made his way to the doorway and then down the hallway toward the constant opening and closing doors and dinging bells and hurrying feet of the elevators.

As Miguel tapped his way toward the elevators, Matt had a panicked thought . . . _What if Miguel doesn't come back to see me before I go home? What if I never get to talk to him again?_

All his hesitation gone at the thought of losing Miguel in the din and motion of the city, Matt lurched toward the door, his hand lightly touching the wall - more for reassurance than as a needed guide. He reached the threshold and paused. He felt nearly naked in the hospital gown, but he didn't want to miss his chance. _At least I have my tighty whities now._ He brushed his hand through his hair and lightly touched the gauze covering his eyes. He cringed at the thought of how others must see him. He shrugged as if to knock the thought off his shoulders. _Nothing I can do about it._

Miguel was nearing the elevators but was not all the way there yet. He called out, "Mr. Reyes?" knowing that the nurse on duty at the nursing station would hear him first - but though he heard her typing fingers pause over the keyboard, she went back to it.

Matt walked out farther into the hallway, his fingertips on the wall and started toward the elevators. He called again, "Mr. Reyes!" a little louder this time, but he didn't think Mr. Reyes heard him as he continued on his way - there was no slowing in his pace. He reached his hand out in front of him as he detected - _with what . . . my radar sense? . . . echolocation is what Miguel said . . . maybe I'm like a bat now_ _-_ a cart against the wall in his path. When his hand came in contact with it, he traced it lightly making his way around it and back to the wall to the threshold of the door next to his. He blushed thinking about the show he was putting on. He wasn't even sure anyone was watching him. He walked across the entrance to find the wall again and continued down the hall, skirting around an I.V. stand that he found with his outstretched hand.

He called out again, a little more desperately this time. " _Señor_ Reyes!"

This time the nurse at the station down the hall stopped typing and Matt heard her chair scraping against the floor as it was pushed back.

"Oh, dear. What are you doing out of your room? Out of your bed? Do you need something, honey? You can use the call button in your room." Matt recognized Iman's voice.

"Yes - can you see Mr. Reyes? Is he still here? I want to talk to him before he leaves. I think I hear him going toward the elevators." Matt feigned uncertainty.

"Oh, yes. I see him. I'll get him. Just a sec." Matt kept walking along the wall, wincing at the racket of Iman's clogged feet as she jogged toward Miguel. The elevator dinged and a cart (clean linens by the scent) followed by a few people emerged from the elevator and moved round Mr. Reyes and Iman. The people standing by the elevator stepped into it and the doors closed.

"Mr. Reyes, sir?" Iman's voice was a little breathy as she caught his attention. He had found the elevators, and the panel of buttons, and was brushing his fingertips over them. Matt listening from down the corridor, making his steady progress down the hall, figured he was determining up and down.

"Yes, what is it?" Miguel seemed surprised.

"The young patient you were visiting wants to talk to you before you leave. He is walking this way. I am Iman, the nurse who you spoke to at the nurse's station when you arrived on the floor."

"Oh, yes, thank you. Can you lead me to him, please?" Miguel's voice was louder as he turned back toward Matt. Matt listened to their footsteps as they approached him. The cart with laundry slowed as it passed by him. It was being pushed by a familiar person, though Matt only knew him by his step and scent, not by name. Matt imagined that the man was looking at him - _Hi, I'm just a scrawny, unbathed teen in an oversized hospital gown with bare feet, and bandages over my eyes fumbling my way down the hallway around medical equipment and other obstacles . . . don't mind me!_ \- he directed a weak smile in the man's direction, then turned his face back to Mr. Reyes and Iman who were nearing.

"Matt, I have Mr. Reyes here." She touched his outstretched hand. "Do you two want to go back to your room or do you want to talk in the waiting room, which is just a couple doors down on the right?"

"Can we go to the nurses' station, Iman? I want to give Mr. Reyes my phone number, but I don't have anything to write with . . . " _And can I even write legibly now and how is Mr. Reyes supposed to read it. Dang._

"Yes, of course. Here, put your hand on Mr. Reyes's arm, and I'll lead you both to the station."

"Hi, Mr. Reyes." Matt said softly as he held his upper arm and trailed slightly behind the trio, "I'm sorry - I realized that I might be leaving the hospital soon, and I want to be able to talk to you again after I got home. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be here."

 _"Está bien. Está bien._ Of course. Yes, I want to talk to you more, too." Matt could hear the emotion in Miguel's voice. He was still recovering from the shock.

"We are at the station, here is the countertop." Iman slipped Mr. Reye's hand off her arm and placed it on the counter, then skirted around it. Matt heard her open a drawer, heard her rustling around in it, and then the gentle tap as she placed a pen on the countertop and scooted a small pad of paper closer to them. Matt stepped up to the counter and pushed his fingertips toward the sounds until he found the paper and pen. He felt the pen, found the lid, and pulled it off, then used his left hand to hold the pad - placing his thumb on one side and his index finger on the other side, started to write down his phone number in the space between his fingers.

"Oh, wait - scoot your fingers down about an inch - there is a logo there that you're about to write over. . . . Yes, that's it." Iman instructed.

He started again with his number, and then wrote his name underneath it without thinking about it too hard.

"Not bad, Mr. Murdock." Iman's voice had a smile in it.

"Huh? Oh, me." Matt set down the pen and had turned his head at that - expecting to see his dad. _Or at least sense him. Mr. Murdock! She means me!_

"Is it legible?"

"Yes." She read the number off to him.

"Okay, good." Feeling the pad of paper to find the adhesive edge, Matt carefully tore off the paper and held it out to Mr. Reyes.

"Here, Mr. Reyes. This is my phone number. Do you have someone at home who can read it to you?" Miguel found the paper and Matt heard him tuck it into a pocket.

 _" _Claro qué sí. Gracías_."_

"Can you write down your number for me?"

"Yes, but maybe Iman can write it for me. _Me tiemblan las manos._ " Matt did feel a tremor in Miguel's hand as it brushed his, standing close as they were at the counter. Miguel recited his number for Iman and Matt listened as the pen scratched the surface of the paper, and then held out his hand when he heard her tearing the page off. He ran his fingers over the paper and was surprised that he could feel the indentations of the pen. He wondered if he'd be able to make out the number if he studied it closely enough. He was careful not to fold it so that he could try out that theory when he was back in his room alone.

"Thank you, Iman, for helping us."

"Yes, of course. . . . Mr. Murdock . . . are you okay? You look pale."

Matt noticed, too, that he was also trembling.

"Um. I'm feeling a little shaky." He admitted. Iman came back around the desk and put her arm around his waist and started to lead him away. His feet felt ice cold on the linoleum, and dirty after the trip down the hallway . . . though given the numbers of times he's heard and smelled the chemicals of the cleaning crew, he was surprised. There were a lot of feet tramping up and down this corridor all day and all night.

"Here, let's go back to your room." She paused and turned her face toward Mr. Reyes asking, "Mr. Reyes, do you want to follow us, or . . . "

"No, _gracias._ I'll head home now. Thank you, Matt. Thank you again for all that you did for me. I'm so sorry that it was at such a high cost." Here his voice broke. Matt reached out and grasped his hand. His skin felt fragile, like paper and both were now trembling.

"Mr. Reyes. Please." Matt wasn't sure what he was asking for . . . he didn't want to cause Mr. Reyes pain. "Please don't worry about me. I'm okay."

Mr. Reyes squeezed his hand. "I'll call you, Matthew Murdock. We will talk more, __mi amigo_."_

"Yes, that would be good."

"You really shouldn't be out of bed, Mr. Murdock." Iman scolded as they went back to his room. "You're still recovering from a big trauma. It takes a toll on the body. No wonder you're shaking."

o0OO0oo0OO0o

Spanish Translations

 _Gracias_ \- Thank you

 _Señora_ \- Missus

 _Estoy bien_ \- I'm fine

 _Señor Reyes_ \- Mister Reyes

 _Está bien. Está bien_ \- It's fine, it's fine.

 _Claro qué sí. Gracías_ \- Of course. Thank you.

 _Me tiemblan las manos_ \- My hands tremble

 _Mi amigo_ \- my friend

o0OO0oo0OO0o


	6. Hound Dog

As Iman led Matt back to his room, his hand lightly grasping her arm just above her elbow, he felt her blood pumping and noticed that her heart seemed to be beating a little faster than what he was noticing was normal for an adult woman (there were a lot of women in the hospital - working, mostly; some were patients). _It's just weird that I can eavesdrop on people's heartbeats. What is going on with me?_

Before this he had only heard his dad's heartbeat when they hugged or when they were watching the late night show and he'd fallen asleep snuggled up next to him. Even then, it wasn't the sea of drums he now heard from everyone around him as they moved about in the hospital. The world was filled with a migrating orchestra and everyone had their own drum set and wind pipes. There were even the little noises that bones made - crackling, popping, grinding. And then there was the gut. Oh wow. He had heard people's guts rumble and gurgle before the accident; now he knew more about the process of digestion and elimination than he ever wanted to know.

It was also overwhelming - so many people in the hospital, going in so many directions and making so much noise. It helped when he focused on one person - helped him filter out all the information he was getting.

He put his attention on Iman, listening to her breath - it wasn't so much labored as shallow, like she wasn't filling her lungs all the way. He realized that there was another rhythm in her body. He gasped in surprise and stumbled as he realized what it must be. _Does Iman have two hearts? There's her Thump-thump, Thump-thump, Thump-thump, and then there is a much more rapid fluttering beat . . . faster than the newborns in the nursery on the floor below. She does have two hearts! There's a baby there - in her belly._

"What is it, Mr. Murdock? Are you okay?"

"What? Oh, yes. I just . . . please just call me Matt - I always think you're talking to my dad when you say Mr. Murdock. " He deflected. _If being able to smell Katie's period is freaky, what is being a human stethoscope? She probably can't even feel hear baby's heartbeat and it is in her body!_ It made him feel a little happy and a little sad . . . it was so neat to hear the baby's heartbeat, but he couldn't share that he knew and it made him feel kind of isolated and alone. Someone who could see would know immediately that Iman was pregnant from her shape and could ask her about the baby. _It's not really like I would have talked to her about her baby before the accident._ He hadn't really noticed pregnant women before, but hearing the heartbeat of the baby made it so much more real than just seeing a big belly.

They had reached his room - not only did he recognize the space and distance between his room and the nurses station, the room held the odors he recognized as his own. His smell. _I am a hound dog._ Elvis's voice crooned in his mind - scratchy like his dad's old records . . . _You ain't nothing but a hound dog, cryin' all the time . . ._

"Here . . . Matt. Your bed is . . ." but he had already dropped her arm, moved passed her (his arm brushing up against her bulging belly accidentally as she turned toward him - confirming what he had already guessed. He climbed onto the bed, relieved to sink into it. He was exhausted. "Sorry . . ." He muttered.

"How did you know where it was?" Iman stammered.

"Oh, I didn't think about it . . . I guess I'm familiar with the room? I've been in here so long." Matt came up with an excuse, but felt the heat rise in his throat at the lie. He knew where his bed was - he could sense it. He had to feel around for the sheets, though; while he knew where the bed was, he couldn't detect without feeling where the sheets were folded back.

"Wow - that's pretty impressive. Most people don't adjust so quickly. I guess you're a quick learner." Iman did sound impressed. Matt was relieved - he was going to have to be more careful if he wanted to hide his freaky abilities from people. _Abilities. Disabilities. Dis-abled. Unable?_ He felt boxed in, but he didn't really fit in the box. _Maybe no one really fits in the boxes we try to put them in._

"I need to take your vitals, Matt. You look pale and are still shaking. I think you may have exerted yourself too much just now. I'll be right back." Matt heard her feet clonking toward the door. It seemed like a lot of the nurses wore heavy, loose fitting shoes that made a hollow wooden noises. _Some wear sneakers, though._ He thought, as he listened to someone limping down the hallway in sneakers who greeted Iman briefly as she emerged from his room. He recognized the limping woman from the first time he came to - _she smells like wood and oil._

Everyone seemed to have a cloud of unique smells that hovered around them and moved with them. It even lingered in some cases when they moved through spaces. He remembered that one patient admitted just the other day in the room across the hall from him. The very smelly woman who maybe hadn't showered in a long time and never brushed her teeth in her life from the odor of decay that emminated from her room. He almost gagged at the memory. Her heartbeat had been very labored - she was definitely ill. Mulling over this new-found ability to recognize people by their heartbeats and their unique aromas - a combination of the soaps, lotions, deodorants, shampoos, and body odors, the spices and foods that they ate - Matt wondered what had changed him so much. _Did it come with being blinded? But if that was the case, Miguel didn't seem to have those senses._ Instinctually, he felt a desire to hide these abilities as if he knew that it wasn't a normal result of losing his eyesight. _But how would I know that?_ He thought about the blind people he knew . . . _well, I don't really know any . . . but there's the guy who sells magazines at the kiosk by the park and there's the blind kid at school . . . shit. Now I'm the blind kid at school. That sucks. . . . Maybe they hide that they can smell people coming and hear their heartbeats and feel objects in their way. But if that's the case, they're doing an amazing job of it._ He remembered the time the blind kid tripped over a cardboard box of books someone had left outside a classroom. _That looked pretty real and it looked like it hurt . . . she had bruises for weeks after that._ He cringed at the memory. He remembered hearing about how the guy selling magazines was robbed and didn't know it was going on. Thankfully, someone else saw what was happening and stepped in. _And Miguel had no idea that truck was about to hit him . . . I can hear and feel people approaching me, let alone trucks._ It didn't really replace the visual cues he used to get from people - the body language, the facial expressions. It was different. A new way of seeing.

Matt reached over to the bedside table and placed the slip of paper with Miguel's phone number on it. He knew that there was a large plastic mug of water with a fitted lid and an attached straw also on the table. He could smell the plastic and so was able to locate it with just a pass of his hand over the top of the table. He could feel the air on his hand changing as his hand neared the mug. He found the body of the mug first, then dragged his fingers around the side until he found the handle. Getting the straw in his mouth was a little trickier, but he managed by guiding it with his other hand. He could taste the plastic in the water - _ick_. He didn't like the taste of it and wished he could have it in a glass, but was too thirsty to be picky. He set the mug down as he heard Iman coming back toward his room with something on a small rickety rolly cart with wheels that rattled. Somewhere down the corridor, someone started a vacuum cleaner that sounded like it was going to take off like a jet engine. _Damn, that thing is god-awfully loud._ The racket it made as it sucked the life out of the carpet . . . it made his head hurt and his teeth ache.

Iman and the cart rattled up to the bedside as Matt lounged back against his pillows. He winced at the sound. He listened as she moved little bits of plastic, tubing, and cords around and got the machine in place.

"Okay, I'm going to put the pulse oximeter on your finger," Iman said as she lifted his right hand and clipped a plastic clamp on his index finger. He was used to the routine by now - this was a daily occurrence.

"I'm going to take your temperature now." Matt held still as Iman glided the temporal thermometer over his forehead, carefully skirting the bandages over his eyes.

"Next is a blood pressure cuff." Matt braced himself and even so nearly jumped out of the bed at the sound of the velcro of the cuff being separated.

"Velcro is so loud!" He could feel his heart pounding.

"Sorry. I'm going to put it on your left arm." Iman reached over and Matt leaned toward her to give her better access to his left arm. She fitted the cuff and placed a cold stethoscope under the cuff, over the bend in his arm. She pumped up the cuff and then slowly let out the air - it hissed. He listened as she counted softly.

"Hmmm." She said as her pen scratched over paper, "Your levels are a bit elevated so it is important that you rest for a while and I'll come back and check again in a little bit to see if they go down. I'm also going to get you some apple juice because you are still trembling and look pale."

"I think the people from the Lighthouse place are going to be coming by soon to show me how to get around. Will I be able to have my lessons with them?"

"We'll see how you're doing. If we need to we can reschedule. They won't want you fainting on them, trust . . . oufff." Iman made a little groaning noise. He cocked his head as he listened and Matt understood why. He could hear the baby moving in her belly and hear gurgling in her other organs in response.

"Oh, this baby is doing back flips!" She moaned. She paused. Matt wondered if she was looking at him. He wondered if she had noticed that he was listening and tried to shift his expression to something more clueless.

"Do you want to feel the baby move?"

"Oh! Sure." Iman guided his outstretched hand to the side of her extended belly - it felt taut and warm. "Oh, wow!" Matt exclaimed as the baby moved against his hand. He could feel and hear the movement of the baby and it struck him as wonderous and odd - to hold another life in one's body. He had never really thought about it before. "Thank you! That is so amazing! Wow."


	7. Thunder

Matt sat in his hospital bed sipping apple juice with a straw from a small paper box sealed with wax. He noted that the residual wax in the apple juice tasted better than plastic in his water. He was able to discern other ingredients in the apple juice beyond apples that made the juice taste different than he remembered from before the accident _(everything tasted, sounded, smelled, felt . . ._ and looked _. . . different before the accident)._ The apple juice had a slightly bitter edge underneath the sweetness that he had never noticed before.

Outside rain started to drum against the windows. He could smell and feel the moisture in the air - it helped relieve some of the staleness of the hospital air and he felt a little refreshed by it, even through the barriers of the walls and windows. He imagined the street below with people jostling each other with a bobbing rainbow of umbrellas - the rumble of the people and cars was different with the addition of the water. It sounded like the pigeons on the ledge were disgruntled - maybe they didn't like the rain. It definitely made their odors stronger - a mixture of wet feathers and bird crap. They flew away. Their wings making a clattering racket as they took off, their cooing conveying their displeasure.

He was feeling a little better, but still a little shaky from his excursion out into the corridor. _When am I going to feel like myself again?_ He wondered. _Why are they keeping me in the hospital so long. It has got to be costing a fortune . . . and in a room by myself, too._ He had noticed that other people shared rooms and that most people hadn't stayed as long as he was staying. _I've been here since Sunday . . . five days already._

Matt set the half-filled apple juice box on the side table next to the jug of water and then carefully felt around on the table top for the slip of paper with Miguel's phone number until he found it. It wasn't as easy to locate as the jug of water or the apple juice container - the jug of water provided resistance to the air and he could locate the apple juice by smell alone. He wanted to study the slip of paper. He brushed his fingertips over the surface and realized that he could tell where the logo was at the top of the page and where Iman had printed Miguel's number. He could almost make out the number, but couldn't make out what the logo said. He brought the page to his nose and sniffed. He could smell the different inks on the page - the ballpoint pen smelled different than the printer's ink of the logo. Not only was it stronger (fresher), it contained different oils and minerals.

 _The guy from the Lighthouse is supposed to be arriving soon . . . my first lesson in how to blind. I wonder how long it'll take me to learn how to read . . . again._

He was itching to look up the common ingredients in inks and papers. He wanted to know what all the individual smells were. _It's strange how my world went dark, but at the same time became so vibrant with smells, textures, and sounds._

He found the box with the braille watch on the table on the left side table and pulled it open, taking the watch out and examining it with his fingers. He brought it to his nose to smell and could distinguish the odors of metal (aluminum?) and oil. The closer he brought it to his face, the louder the ticking got - it was almost too much. He wondered how long he'd be able to wear it before it drove him crazy. He found a small latch on the side of the watch face and pressed it. The glass sprang open with a little pop. He lightly ran his fingers over the face - feeling the hands of the watch and the little bumps. There weren't as many as he expected. Just three arranged in a triangle at the top - _noon -_ and two at 3, 6, and 9 and then one for each 5-minute marker in between. He brushed his fingers over the face again and puzzled out from the positions of the little and big hands that it was a little after 1:50 pm - 1:53?

As he was strapping the watch to his left wrist, he stopped. Something was going on outside with the storm. He could feel a charge in the air - electricity - he braced himself, clinging to the rails of the bed as the air shuddered with vibrations that could only be thunder, but the effect shook him to his core and the noise was more than he could bear. He cried out in pain. It reminded him of the time he had gone up to the belltower of the cathedral while the bells were tolling. The sound vibrated through his body, reverberating through his head, jarring his teeth. He collapsed on the bed as the rumbling lessened feeling like he had been run over by a semi. He felt the charge gathering again - it felt stronger this time like the storm was moving closer. He crouched in the middle of the bed and pulled the pillow over his head in an attempt to muffle the thunder. It helped a little with his ears, but the electricity and the vibrations still shook his bones and rattled the windows. He tried to contain the pain this time but still moaned. He felt the electricity mounting again - _not again! -_ and braced for another onslaught.

He started in surprise as a hand brushed against his back and then grasped his shoulder momentarily but didn't emerge from the pillow as the thunder cracked through his head and body again. He ground his teeth together trying not to cry out this time. The storm was starting to move away. He sat up and scrubbed at the tears that had escaped from under the bandages over his eyes. He inhaled the scent of the person who stood near him, but couldn't place them - _him?_ His aroma was more male - deodorant, shampoo, sweat.

"Who is here?"

"Are you okay, Mr. Murdock? It's just thunder."

"It. Is. Not. Okay. - it is _arrgghh_." He threw the pillow over his head again as another clap of thunder hit him - jolting through his skeleton, splitting open his head.

He emerged again when the rumbling passed . . . it was definitely moving away. _Thank God!_

"Who _are_ you?" He asked again - his voice shaking. He didn't like not knowing who was in the room with him. In addition to the pain from the thunder (he felt his ears to see if they were bleeding), he felt vulnerable and uncomfortable being observed without knowing who was looking at him.

"Oh, I'm David Bryant from the Lighthouse Guild - I'm your mobility instructor. Are you alright? Storms frighten you?"

"No. I'm not afraid of the storm. It . . . it is too loud. So impossibly loud. I can't stand it . . . it hurts."

"It hurts? Really? It's not that loud. I mean . . . we're inside."

"It's really loud to me. Everything is really loud." His voice was filled with pain.

Matt felt the electricity gathering again and though it was farther away, he braced himself for the next surge. "It's coming again. . ." He groaned as he put the pillow over his head again. The thunder exploded - vibrating his ear drums.

He sat up. "It's going away." He sighed.

"How did you know it was going to thunder? Your file says you have no light perception . . . so you can't have seen the lightning before the thunder."

"No, I can't see the lightning, but I can feel it. Here comes another one."

Matt hunkered down under the pillow. He flinched as the thunder sounded, but the effect was lessening - made more bearable by the distance. He sat up slowly - his head throbbing.

"Wow. That's amazing. You can feel it?"

"Yeah. It doesn't feel amazing. The pigeons didn't like it either. They left."

"What pigeons?" David sounded confused and a bit incredulous.

"The pigeons that were on the ledge outside my window. They flew away before the thunder started."

"You could hear them, too?"

"Yeah, and sme . . . " Matt stopped feeling that he had revealed too much. He wasn't thinking straight after being assaulted by the thunder.

"But you didn't hear me when I came into the room and was speaking to you just now. You didn't know I was there until I touched you on the shoulder."

"The thunder blotted everything else out. . . So . . . you're here to train me?" Matt tried to redirect the conversation away from his crazy new abilities. It irked him how David sounded like he didn't believe him.

"Yep, are you ready to get started?"

"Um, sure." He said reluctantly . . . his head was still aching and he felt shaky again after the thunder. "What are we going to do?"

"Well, I've got a cane here for you and I'm going to show you how to use it."

"Okay." Matt started to get off the bed when he realized that the watch that he had been strapping to his wrist when the thunder started had fallen off. He started feeling around the sheets for it. "Do you see my watch? It fell on the bed somewhere . . . " _I can hear it ticking . . . it is close._

"Oh, well, no. I don't see it. But I don't see much . . . just some light and shadows. I'm legally blind."

"Oh." _Great, the blind leading the blind again. Here we go._

Matt stopped for a second to listen with more focus for the ticking and swept his hand over the area of the bed where he could hear the watch - his fingers came in contact with the cool metal and the vibrating rhythm. "Found it!" He felt a bit triumphant as he put it on his wrist and popped the top to make sure he had it oriented with noon at the top of the watch face.

"Did you figure out how to read it?" David asked.

"Yes, the triangle of dots at the top is noon, right? And two dots for 3, 6, and 9, one dot for all the rest."

"Yes, that's it. Did they feel like dots or lines?"

"Dots for sure."

"Well, I think you'll pick up braille quickly then. Okay, are you ready to try out the cane?"

"Yeah, I guess I'm ready." He felt a bit wobbly, but he was also sick of laying around all day.


	8. Collapsible

Matt climbed off the bed and stood expectantly next to it waiting for his cane lesson with David Bryant, his mobility instructor from the Lighthouse Guild. He drew in a shuddering breath trying to calm his racing heart from the thunder assault he had just survived. _Would it be like this every time there is a storm?_

"Okay, Matt. I have your mobility cane here." Matt could feel a disturbance in the air in front of him and reached out, finding David's outstretched hand holding a bundle of sticks.

"Oh, I thought it would be longer," Matt uttered in surprise.

"This is a collapsible cane, meaning you can fold it up when you're not using it. It is made of five aluminum tubes that have an elastic rope threaded through the center. At the top, there is a grip with a strap and at the bottom a metal tip. The tubes fit together when you pull them apart and allow them to lengthen - kind of like tent poles if you've ever gone camping."

"Oh, I've never been camping."

"Well, go ahead and undo the binding in the center that is holding the poles together and gently shake it out. Try to hold it parallel to your body. It should be about shoulder height. As you get used to using a cane you may find that other styles, heights, tips are better for you. You can try out different styles at the Guild. For now, this one should work."

Matt slid his hand over the length of the bundle of sticks while David was describing the cane, then found the tie that held the bundle together in the center and after a bit of fumbling, figured out how to undo it. The tie was an extension of the strap of the handle. Matt stiffened as the aluminum clattered a bit as it unfolded and lengthened and then snapped into place. He heard David step back a couple steps.

"Oh, sorry. Did I hit you with it?"

"No, but next time hold it a bit closer and more parallel to your body as it expands. It's okay. You'll get used to how it folds out as you use it."

Matt swished it back and forth a bit, testing it out, and then regretting his enthusiasm as the tip of the cane made a sharp ringing tone as it came into contact with the leg of the bed and then the leg of the side table. The sound reverberated and he held the cane still in an attempt to stifle the noise.

"Okay, resist the urge to wave it around," David chuckled.

"Is it going to make that noise every time?" Matt worried.

"Only when you wack metal with the tip. You'll develop a softer touch as you get used to it. And that feedback is important information. Okay, I'm going to walk you through how to use it properly. Of course, everyone develops their own style, but you want to start knowing the recommended way of using a cane with the hope that you don't develop any bad habits."

"Okay. I'm all ears."

"Think of your cane as a tool. In a lot of ways, it is an extension of your own fingertips. It'll help you determine what is around you so that you can move through space easily and avoid tripping over things (most of the time). It is also a visual symbol so that sighted folks know that you're visually impaired. As you get used to using it, you'll notice that you can hear the differences between surfaces, such as pavement or the sidewalk. In a lot of cities, corners of streets and the edges of subway platforms are designed with a distinctive texture, called tactile markers, that we can identify to know that we are at a street crossing or near the edge of the subway platform.

You want to hold the cane by the grip firmly, but not too tight. Extend your pointer finger down the length of the grip. You'll center the cane about an inch from your midsection and move it with your wrist in an arc."

Matt was a bit confused by these directions. He moved his right hand to the grip and extended his index finger so that it was pointing down the grip, his elbow high in the air, and then slowly slid the cane out in front of him so that the grip was about an inch from his belly button. "Like this?" He asked.

"I'm going to touch you so that I can feel if your hand is in the correct position, okay?" David stepped closer and his outstretched hand brushed against Matt's upper left arm, right on his bandage. Matt flinched involuntarily - the skin underneath was tender. Matt felt David feeling the bandage and then take his hand away quickly with a gasp as he understood.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't know you had other injuries."

"It's okay. I know. It's a burn. A chemical burn." Matt said, recalling what Dr. Patel had said. " . . . just there on my arm . . . and my face. And I guess some bruising, too. It's probably good you can't see me. I'm sure I look like a train wreck." Matt quipped, trying to ignore the stinging in his arm.

"Makes no difference to me!" David humored. "So, are you right-handed or left-handed?" David asked, getting back to the task.

"Right-handed."

"So, you'll want to hold the cane in your nondominant hand so that you have your dominant hand free to do other things. Does it hurt to move your left arm?"

"A little, I haven't been moving much lately, so it hasn't really been an issue."

Matt switched hands and then waited as David lightly traced his hands over Matt's to get an idea of his grip and stance. Matt realized that he was holding his breath. It felt awkward to be viewed this way, though David was quick and didn't linger.

"Okay, that's right. Now I'm going to stand to the side, and you swing the cane from the right to the left in an arc that it is about a foot wider than your body on either side. Since we're in a confined space, you're going to encounter objects faster than if you were out on the sidewalk. Just move your wrist, not your whole arm. Hold the cane so that tip hovers about an inch off the floor."

"Um, how do I know . . . " Matt questioned and David spoke over him, anticipating his uncertainty, "You'll just have to get a feel for it through practice. Today I'm just giving you the basics, and we'll have more sessions for fine-tuning techniques and trying them out in different situations."

Matt moved the cane in an arc slowing as it as he neared the wall to his right, not wanting to set off the explosion of sound of the metal tip hitting the wall. He could feel the air stopping at the wall. He knew it was there.

"Why did you stop?" David asked.

"I didn't want to hit the wall. It's so loud." Matt confessed.

"What? But that's the whole point. And how did you know it was there to stop?" David's voice rose in exasperation. "This is a tool so that you can navigate your surroundings." Matt could hear David's heartbeat quicken in what he realized was frustration. His own heart accelerated in response. Maybe he wasn't ready for this. The trembling he felt earlier was back and it had brought nausea with it. He tasted bile (with a strong apple juice flavor) at the back of his throat.

"Here, I'll show you." Oblivious, David moved behind Matt and put his hand over Matt's where it was holding the cane, and then guided him in the movement of the arc until the metal tip dinged against the wall. Matt started at the sound and the reverberations that traveled up the rod to his arm in shocking waves. As David stepped away, Matt swayed as he felt his knees giving away. He put his right hand out to steady himself against the bedside table, but the room seemed to be closing in on him, the table wasn't where he thought it was. He felt as if the walls were pressing against him and he was falling through a narrow, seemingly endless tunnel. The darkness seemed heavier and more oppressive than he had ever experienced before . . . more complete and final as he lost sense of himself. The ever-present cacophony of the hospital faded as if someone had turned down the volume until it was completely silent and in the moment he lost complete consciousness, Matt realized he couldn't even hear his own heartbeat anymore.


End file.
